


It's the end of the world as we know it

by SuperJupiter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-23 16:45:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4884241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperJupiter/pseuds/SuperJupiter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When her editor asks her why she punched Bellamy Blake in the face, she swears she’ll have a great answer. “We were boxing,” she’ll say. Or perhaps, “his face ran into my fist.” Maybe she’ll let her voice drip with sarcasm and ooze cynicism and say, “Well his face was just too pretty. I figured it was time to do something about that.” Or maybe she’ll just tersely spit that “He’s a fucking asshole,” because that would be the closest to the truth. She surely won’t say that she called him a fascist, or that he called her a rich, entitled little bitch. Nor will she tell him any of the numerous things he said about her dad, and she won’t recount the searing jeers she unleashed about his mom. Besides, she probably wouldn't even have time to explain that debacle; she would be too busy packing up her desk. </p><p>Or, where Bellamy is movie star and Clarke is supposed to do an interview</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's the end of the world as we know it

When her editor asks her why she punched Bellamy Blake in the face, she swears she’ll have a great answer. “We were boxing,” she’ll say. Or perhaps, “his face ran into my fist.” Maybe she’ll let her voice drip with sarcasm and ooze cynicism and say, “Well his face was just too pretty. I figured it was time to do something about that.” Or maybe she’ll just tersely spit that “He’s a fucking asshole,” because that would be the closest to the truth. She surely won’t say that she called him a fascist, or that he called her a rich, entitled little bitch. Nor will she tell him any of the numerous things he said about her dad, and she won’t recount the searing jeers she unleashed about his mom. Besides, she probably wouldn't even have time to explain that debacle; she would be too busy packing up her desk. 

Clarke goes home first and changes into jeans and a tee. This way she’ll at least be comfortable when she faces the shitstorm that will be her editor. She’s too tired to grab her corkscrew, so passes on the wine and pops open a can of beer instead. It tastes like shit, but when she takes a sip, she sighs because that is exactly what she needs right now. If she’s pissed and testy, well, forgive her, she’s about to get fired. 

 

**“You’re from the Tribune?” At Clarke’s nod, the girl motions for her to follow. “Right this way, please.”**

**The hallways wind in innumerable directions, but Clarke stays focused on the yellow blazer in front of her. The blazer seems to know exactly where they are going, moving without hesitation through rooms and past doors, so that when it finally stops, Clarke is sure that Bellamy Blake is on the other side of the door.**

**The blazer knocks for her, calling for Bellamy. “The Tribune reporter is here.”**

**A soft crash follows and then an explicit string of profanity. The door opens and Blake looks a little rumpled, but it’s still a good look on him.**

**“Clarke Griffin, I work for the Tribune.”**

**“Yeah, I figured that one out.” He smiles, perhaps smirks a bit, and the sparkle in his eyes is tempting, even for Clarke. She now understands perfectly how he picks up his harem of women. He motions her into his dressing room, and she takes a seat on the leather couch. He picks an armchair across from her.**

**“Let’s talk your new movie.” He nods, slowly, and she continues. “Tell us a little about it.”**

**“Well, it’s a sci-fi action flick. My character is the first human to a group of aliens that descend onto Earth. I would say that he generally….” Blake drones on, and Clarke would be upset at her own lack of professionalism, but she’s recording the interview anyway, and she’s only on this because Monroe called in sick. When he finally stops, Clarke smiles and looks down at her pad.**

**“Rumors have been circulating that you were, in fact, not friendly with some members of the cast. Supposedly an argument broke out between you and your costar John Murphy. Can you comment on those rumors?”**

**He laughs, but stops when he encounters Clarke’s stoic expression. “You sound like you’re talking to the secretary of defense or the chairman of the FED.”**

**Clarke doesn’t mean to sound snotty when she says, “well I was doing just that last week.” She doesn’t mean to sound as if she’s spitting on his profession. She’s just a little bitter at being put on this assignment when she could be having lunch with someone important. She had interviewed US Senators before. If she did her job right she would land herself a spot on the White House press corps within the next five years. This interview, well, needless to say it was beneath her.**

Her phone rings. Lexa. She picks it up anyway. 

“How did it go? You didn’t say anything too explosive?” Lexa has always had an intuition about when Clarke was going to fuck up. It sucked that she was using it now. 

“You haven’t heard?” There is a pause and some shuffling on the other end. She imagines that Wells and Fox are on the phone this instant with Blake’s agent. 

“What happened?” 

“Look, don’t worry about it.” 

“Clarke, if you don’t tell me this instant, Jaha will have my head.” 

“Yeah, and if I tell you at all, he’ll have mine.” 

“Clarke.” 

“Lexa.” 

“Just between us?” 

“I can hear Jaha on the line.” 

“He’s not - ”

“I’ll be in soon, okay?” Clarke hangs up before she can get an answer. 

 

**“Oh, so you think that you should be interviewing someone important, that this is beneath you,” he mocks, spitting his words. Clarke pales a little, but gives herself a moment to collect herself before she responds.**

**“I never said that.” Clarke channels her inner Abby when she replies, letting years of stoicism seep through.**

**“But you implied it.”**

**“I never said that.”**

**“Yeah, when you told me that you were interviewing what, the Secretary of State last week or whatever political figure you feel is important, don’t tell me you felt that right now you could be interviewing one of them.”  
“Well I’m sorry that I’m more interested in what Congressional leaders have to say than your new movie.” **

**“So you admit that you think you’re too good for this?”**

**“Yeah, I do, actually.”**

**“Well I’m sorry if I’m not good enough for you, princess. I read the tribune. I know about your parents’ money, that you’re the heiress to a pretty little fortune. I’m sorry if the rest of us peasants are beneath you. Maybe if you actually worked a day in your life you’d know that.”**

 

Clarke tosses the beer can in the recycling. When Monroe gets back maybe they can fix this. Well, maybe Monroe can fix it. And her? Well, she’ll be out on her ass trying to pick up a job at the local paper because she mouthed off to some celebrity with a pretty face. (What? He was so pretty, okay? Sue her, she didn’t know everything but she knew a hot piece of ass when she saw one) 

She doesn’t even bother packing her computer; she’ll just have to take it straight back home again anyway. She just takes her wallet and her phone, shoved into a little clutch. Her normally massive bag stays splayed across the couch, contents spilling over onto the floor. She won’t be needing it anyway. 

**  
“I worked hard every day of my life to get to where I am. I started at nowhere. I started in Podunk Iowa following around nothing candidates for city council or the school board. I didn’t have shit.”**

**“Oh, the princess thinks she’s entitled to some respect because she didn’t use her mommy’s money. You think that you get a gold star for doing your own work. News flash, princess, that’s what the rest of us do our entire life.”**

**“Shut the fuck up. No one owes you shit because your mom was a prostitute. Yeah, you worked yourself up, but who gives a shit? You don’t get any pity or special treatment because your life was hard. And guess what? You’re in Hollywood now, so forgive me if I don’t - ”**

**“I get it, the rich kid doesn’t think anyone else worked hard. You’re just a stuck up little rich brat who thinks she’s too good for this. What, did daddy not love you enough?”**

**“Your dad didn’t stick around long enough to raise you. Really wanna play this game?”**

**“Don’t talk about my dad.”**

**“Then don’t talk about mine.”**

**“I’ll talk about whatever the hell I want. You think that the world owes you something. Guess what, Princess, the world doesn’t owe you shit. You’re just a rich entitled little bitch”**

**“You’re a fucking fascist,” she says, and punches him in the face.**

 

“Hey, did the Blake interview finish early? You were supposed to have a two hour block,” Wells says, and she does a quick double take. 

“What?” 

“I said –“ 

“Yeah, I heard you the first time.” As she walks away, she’s already noticing the lack of excitement. Jaha isn’t hammering on her desk and phones aren’t ringing off the hook. Lexa is nowhere to be seen. In fact, everything looks exceptionally normal. She’s now upset that she didn’t bring her computer, and is stuck using her desktop, which makes dinosaurs look young. The massive thing shutters to life as she clicks the button. She even goes to the bathroom to pass the time, yet comes back to the windows logo still monopolizing her screen. 

And then, when things couldn’t possibly get any worse, Jaha shows up. It was only a matter of time anyway, right? 

“So, I heard the Blake interview did not go as planned.” 

“Look, I can explain, I - ”

“I just want to know why you left early. We were lucky to get those two hours, and you just left, Clarke. I thought you were more professional than that.” 

“I – what?” 

“I know you think that you’re better than the celebrity gossip column, but when we need someone, we need someone, even if it’s you, okay?” Apparently Jaha hadn't heard of her horrible debacle. 

“I, uh, I mean, he, uh, well, he had to cut the meeting short," she lied quickly. 

“Ah, and pray tell me why we had a two hour block on his schedule and he decided that he had to cut it short.” 

“He was, uh, double booked, sir.” 

“Well, did you at least get something?” 

“No, sir, the tape was stolen." At this point it was getting hard to believe that Jaha wasn't just fucking with her, and if not for the years she had spent working for him, she wouldn't have believed he was actually buying this. 

“It was stolen,” he repeats, disbelieving.

“My entire bag was stolen.” 

“And you have your phone and wallet because...?” 

“I was buying a hot dog down on eighth, so they weren't in my purse” 

“Okay, I guess we could try and schedule Monroe for another day.” 

And with that, she’s off the hook, at least until Blake’s agent calls down here screaming bloody murder. 

 

The next day she gets called into Jaha’s office, and she’s prepared to get fired. She’s decided that she’ll tell him that his fist ran into her face as the official story. He’s going to fire her anyway, so she might as well have a little fun. She’s not going to take this lying down. 

“You wanted to see me?” 

“Yeah, come in.” She does, taking a seat in one of the creaky old chairs across from his desk. 

“Clarke, I’m really sorry about this.” 

“Jaha, I get it.” 

“Oh, so Lexa told you?” 

“Well, no one had to tell me, sir.” She tries to look at least a little ashamed, but she really has no remorse for punching Blake anyway. 

“Good, so the interview is schedule for one today.” 

“What interview?” 

“The Blake interview. I thought you already knew.” 

“Knew what? And why isn’t Monroe on it?” 

“You’re interviewing Blake. His agent agreed to let us do a six-part expose on his whole family. You get to be on set with movie crews, all that jazz.” 

“Again, has Monroe had a stroke?” 

“The condition was that it had to be you. Blake himself specifically requested it.” 

“Yeah. Must have made quite the impression.” 

“Must have.” 

 

The first day on set with Bellamy Blake is hell. Mostly, in fact, because they don’t yell. In fact, he is perfectly civil to her. She could almost mistake it for friendliness, if wasn’t for that nasty glint in his eye that says differently. She doesn’t get him alone for the first day, nor the next, nor the one after that. It takes her exactly four days of hell before she just shoves him into his dressing room at the ass-crack of dawn and really lays into him. 

“What the hell, Blake?” 

“Nice to see you too, princess,” he drawls congenially. He hasn’t even gotten makeup on, so she can see the fading bruise from where she punched him last week. The only thing that had given her joy since the past Monday had been the constant questions about his eye. 

“Yeah, I’m having a real party here,” she snips back, oozing sarcasm. “Wanna tell me why the hell you asked me to cover this damn story.” 

“Well, I think the Princess needs to work for something in her life, don’t you?” 

“That’s bullshit, Bellamy.” 

“Oh, I see we’re on a first name basis now.” 

“Go to hell.” 

“Already there,” he mutters under his breath as the door slams shut behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> Ugh this is how I'm procrastinating today. This is kind of a trashy fic with no resolution at all. I thought I was going to write more, but now I don't know where I want this to go at all, so it's just kind of hanging. Maybe I'll pick it up later? Anyway thanks to anyone who actually read this.


End file.
